


It Goes "Bump" in the Night

by DizzIzzi



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Feels, Canon Lesbian Relationship, Dreams and Nightmares, F/F, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Magic, Mild Language, No Smut, No Spoilers, One Shot, Pranks Gone Wild, Psychological Horror, Psychological Warfare, maybe? - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-03-09 08:00:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18912835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DizzIzzi/pseuds/DizzIzzi
Summary: Remember that dialogue between Sera and Solas where she’s teasing/threatening him with pranks and he rebuts with “I am a Dreamer you know, I can infiltrate your dreams.” And she rightly freaks out?What if…?





	It Goes "Bump" in the Night

  It’s awkward, presenting before the entire council, her lips feel chapped and dry as sweat rolls down her forehead.  Her notes are there in front of her but she suddenly realizes, she can’t read!  It’s as if the whole of reality comes crushing down onto her, the hall growing smaller and smaller and smaller and smaller and smaller and…

  She wakes.  Her leafy blanket shifts slightly as her supple legs move.  The tender light of the sun filters through the slits in the roof, it kisses her skin like a long-time lover.  Laying her feels…  Nice.  Everything feels _right_ in a way she can’t quite explain right now, doesn’t even care to try; she yawns.  Summer here, in her home, is luxurious; the way the trees whistle and wave in the breeze, the sound of the fiddle-harp as it flows along ethereal currents, the feeling of children's’ laughs echoing through the magnificent halls and galleries.  She stretches languidly, long slender limbs coming short of the gilt bedposts.  It feels almost too good to get up, another yawn escapes her lips—it sounds strange, deeper than usual, not so shrill and tense as if the sky were falling.

  Something shifts in the bed, it’s large.  Suddenly all the beauty around her, all the leafy-green and golden promise, dulls in her eyes.  Radiant arches turn to crumbling stone as the fiddle-harp snaps and the songs of laughter turn to screams; the world ends around her again.  She runs.  Ancient Arlathan falls around her and she can do nothing, her beloved city crumbles into long-forgotten dust.  Something about that doesn’t seem right.  She needs to run faster, further from…   _Something._   It follows her, loping and snarling like a rabid dog and she leaps, vaults over-under the last decaying bastion of true civilization, the true Elvhen.  She can’t run any faster, she needs to run faster!  Its monstrous, black form grows larger and larger, her legs can’t pump faster—it’s gaining!  She needs to run, hide, she can’t think with the pounding in her head and her blood and her-

  She wakes.  It’s not a cloying nightmare this time, it’s her bed in Skyhold; normal, bloody bed with normal, bloody covers.  Her room—so achingly familiar in its random clutter and mess—just how she likes it.  The chaos, just like the one in her mind, is sometimes a hell she can never escape and sometimes the second most whizzingly beautiful feeling ever after-  Her skull throbs like a bad hangover, she scowls.  The mess, it’s like the clutter’s stopping her brain from thinking right.  Her head still pounds like the padding of that black wolf.

         “Might as well get up…”

 

  It’s still morning—”You know the time because it is a dream, why wouldn’t you know it?” says a soothing, rolling voice in her head—and the sounds of daily life bustle around her.  She loves the noise, so much like the city, she loves the random dissonance that weaves together into-she frowns and her ears ache at the cacophony.  Legs move without thought towards her washbasin, maybe a wash will clear her head.  The closer she gets, the less things hurt, the less she sees the mess and dismal state of mind she revels in like a child.  It hits her like a fist in the gut—she _is_ a child. 

  All her life has been simply playing in the dirt without looking up to see the _real_ world, the _real_ problems.  In her immaturity she spites and degrades those who see the truth of things, who know better about life and the world than her.  All her intense reactions—the rejection of her heritage, the denial of her innate gifts—all of it is simply because she refused to learn, to grow.  Like a petulant babe bawling at not having sweets for supper she threw and spit and _killed_ all that her narrow mind could not admit to be true.  Every chance that’s offered to her she clamps down, curls up into a little ball and blames the world for her troubles; she needs to grow up.

  The basin’s below a vanity mirror, nicked from some noble’s room or something, a gentle sheen frosting over the glass.  She can’t have that, she needs to see!  Gloved hands wipe away the film and she screams.  Her face!  _Her face!_   Someone else’s voice screams back at her and she reels in horror at the monstrosity before her.  Oh Maker, it can’t be true!

  The chiseled lines and proud forehead of Solas stare back at her with her own eyes.  Her roughly cut blonde hair covering the usually shiny crown that insufferable, pompous elf wears.  Ever her mouth, usually so round and plump and _kissable_ , now shines eerily with his perfect smoothness; thin lips stretched wide in a look of abject terror and revulsion.  She doesn’t even stare back into her own eyes!  All that she hates—all that she fears—she has become it.  All the stuck up “never’ll be what we once were”—like _he’d_ know!—all the stuffy formality and tradition and secret sneering behind idle pleasantries, everything that makes her want to prank him harder, now she _is_ that.  Everything swims as her small mind tries to comprehend the vision in front of her. She wants to run, _needs_ to run, but her body won’t move as her world spirals into the mirror, into his ugly mug. 

  She wakes.  The warmth of her shared bed so nice and comforting, she’s home safe.  These horrible dreams are at an end because she’s finally awake this time…  Right?  She lets out a whimper, hoping it was all a dream, that this really really was reality.  She hates magicky shite.  Rolling over to try and find her Shiny there’s nothing there, odd…  Her stomach drops, panic chokes her, swallow her whole through her own mouth.  She’s alone.  Her lover is gone and when she leaps to the window nobody’s their either, just grass and bruised dummies far below.  It’s silent, so silent, she can’t breathe!

         “Help.”

 

  A ball is soft, a ball is warm like the rock of some mother’s arms that she’s never known.  She suckles—that most primal of instincts—but every taste of her thumb smells of the absence of _her_.  Eyes wide—she can’t remember her name!  Alone, so alone and now she can’t remember her love’s name!  She can’t, can’t take it. 

  Things start to fly away; the swell of her hip, the sweet musk of her sex, those horns that feel so good to hold while her lover makes her _scream_.  All flying away.  She’s losing herself, who even is she?  What _is_ a “she” even?  Is it a name, a thing that belongs to _“I”_ or is it for something else?  Was there even an “I” to own something… what was it?

 

Nothing floats, adrift, in the Void.  Nothing is almost all that’s left; there’s only a single thought, a single plea, a single word.  _“Help.”_

  Something touches the mote in the inky void.  A single pinprick of light wrapping around the fetal soul in warm comfort, in Love.  Like a mother or a lover the light lifts the soul up and breaths life back into the once empty shell.  Things return as the iota of being becomes more and more _herself_ again—it feels even better than sex.  Memories resurface, names make their way back to her mind as she’s pulled up and up and out of the abyssal nothingness; she sighs in delight as she remembers

         “My name is Sera.”

         Her name is Basvaarad Adaar.

 

  Adaar is _not_ happy.  While her physical body holds her tiny, frail lover tight, cooing softly to still the poor woman’s frayed nerves, the giant is deep within the Fade.  Her consciousness stretches out, searching for the cause of the interruption to her sleep and worse.  She had been so happy to be able to spend last night in Sera’s arms—or was it still this night?—her girlfriend might never have woken up again if she hadn’t been there.  Solas is in for a piece of her mind, make that seven.  Her fury is the roar of a mighty dragon, full of blood and fury and fire like the feeling of raw lyrium in her veins—she would kill him happily if the runt said anything.

  He’s holed up in the thought of a cave, caves were apparently his thing for some reason—she rather preferred being in a bed if she’s being honest, even with the horns.  Legs crossed as if the Dreamer was meditating or deeply asleep except this was the Fade, they were both asleep already.  His face is beatific, insufferably so, and not for the first time her fist itches to put a nice, permanent scar across his unmarred, unsullied face.  The bald elf doesn’t even raise his head when she gets near, he’s obviously unapologetic for his “prank.”

         “Ah, I see you’ve-”

                  “Now you shut your stupid _fucking_ mouth.  You better thank whatever gods you pray to that I was sleeping next to her because if she had never woken up _you_ would not see the following morning.  This ends _now_.”  The shiny, hairless man looks up, something almost like regret within his eyes

         “I… I see.  If you insist, I will stop.  I do not wish to anger you.  But-” The Tal-Vashoth growls

                 “Not good enough.  You nearly sent her into the Void, that’s not—as we say in the Valo-Kas—kosher.  You pull this shit again, with _any_ one, and I will take all the considerable power within my body and make sure you never do anything again.  Do you get me?”

 

  Something in Solas hardens, the lines of misplaced age making themselves known around his eyes as they narrow, staring into her glowing ones.  As if a great contest of wills had been declared the two formidable mages square off—in the Fade the tension becomes personified by crackling lightning as it steadily cheers its way into the dreamscape around them.  Her horned head leans closer to his bald one, she can even see her reflection in it.  It almost reaches a breaking point.

  Sparks of all colors begin to cavort and leap around the silent combatants, daring them to let loose their emotions and rip the Veil in a climatic, fatal, confrontation.  She almost snaps—had he lasted a second longer she would have felt no remorse in immolating his stupid head and using his leftover skull as a paperweight.  As is, the elven mage backs down against her righteous fury.

         “I understand, Inquisitor.  This shall not happen again.”

                  “Good.”

 

  She doesn’t stay to see him leave the ethereal plane; by the time Solas is on his metaphorical feet she’s already woken herself up through sheer force of will.  She’s there, Sera, so peaceful and worry free now in her strong arms, the most secure she’s felt since she was five.  Basvaarad Adaar—her own keeper, her own weapon—strokes her lover’s unruly locks, traces shapes and promises of love along the elf’s naked body, reveling in the feel of her lover under her thick fingers.  She knows this won’t happen again, the man had promised after all, but if Sera remembered it…  She would need to have a talk with her girlfriend before either of them left the room, for the safety of everyone in Skyhold and beyond.  The scared Tal-Vashoth mage smiles as the most precious thing still alive in her life snorts and mumbles

         “...  Love you, loony…”


End file.
